


Shell Shock

by peacefultyranny



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Coping with trauma, Other, PTSD, also descriptions of being hit with a chemical weapon, emetophobia warning, me gay feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefultyranny/pseuds/peacefultyranny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combat stress reaction (CSR) is a term used within the military to describe acute behavioral disorganization seen by medical personnel as a direct result of the trauma of war. Also known as “combat fatigue”, it has some overlap with the diagnosis of acute stress reaction used in civilian psychiatry. It is historically linked to shell shock and can sometimes precurse post-traumatic stress disorder. </p>
<p>(AKA Wing helps Drift pull out of a bad flashback)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shell Shock

**Author's Note:**

> give me more robots coping with mental illnesses. no one in the idw universe is without ptsd like seriously four million years of war = some fucked up robots. please. Please.

****There’s no strange itch, no slow burn, no scent of smoke in the air. There’s a soft clink as some tiny object bounces across armour before sticking, and then there’s only heat. Hot, hot, screaming heat, burning-tearing-clawing-melting heat.

No. No no  _no no_ _ **no**_.

Drift’s body rockets upright just in time to watch his paint bubble up in the heat worming its thick claws under his armour. The bubbles burst, curl, and the heat-resistant paint instantly ignites in a searing crawl over his armour. The super-hot material scattered over his frame - dropped from the air, probably,  _why aren’t there any air raid sirens?_  - makes a gleeful shrieking noise as it starts to melt through the dense ablative metal, liquid metal bubbling and hissing in the little growing holes left behind.

He’s not sure if the sound he’s hearing is auditory feedback, the sound of metal shrieking as its compromised, or himself.

He takes desperate swipes at his arms, legs, chest, trying to brush some of the material off, only to smear pieces of it farther and get it stuck to his palms. He barely notices when his back slams into a wall, too busy watching holes appear in his hands. Something burns through the lighter armour on his stomach and drops down onto his internals, and this time he’s very aware that the scream is his own.

This is how he’s going to die, he realizes. In the middle of nowhere on some barren world clawing at his own guts and screaming as he’s burned inside-out. He leans sideways and retches before returning to near-hysterical sobs as his fingers dig into the hole into his stomach. He’s in shock - god, is he in shock - and a part of him knows he shouldn’t be pulling at the wound like this and making it worse, but he can’t think. 

Something hot and heavy lands on his shoulder and the ground shakes, jostling him, and his throat spits static and feedback. Twin suns break on the horizon, golden main-sequence stars that are oddly beautiful in his dimming vision. His comm feed picks up someone, but his systems are hyper-focused on the pain and he can’t understand anything that’s being said.

The heavy weight moves from his shoulder and instead something pulls his hands away from his stomach. He whines, but he can’t find the strength to pull them back. Something brushes soothingly over the backs of his servos slowly, leaving trails of liquid cold in their wake and smoothing over the warped and splitting paint.

“--rything’s okay, nothing’s going to hurt you. You’re safe, Drift. Everything’s okay. You’re safe now, I promise,” an oddly familiar voice tells him, dim and distant. The voice says ‘you’re safe’ like a mantra, slowly growing louder, and the twin suns he’s been staring at slowly morph into optics, the face they’re set in coming into view.

The reason he can’t hear very well becomes obvious very suddenly: his own fans are running at max, resulting in a dull roar, and he’s panting hard through his intake. His frame feels like it’s super-heating, but the burning pain is fading to a ghostly whisper on his sensornet.

“Wing.” he rasps, and then the shaking starts. Wing chirrs softly and smooths his hands down his arms, and all he can do is whine and dry-heave. The taste and smell of stale processed energon lingers, and part of him manages to feel ashamed for throwing up on his borrowed bed. Wing doesn’t seem to mind though, still murmuring softly and petting from his elbows down to his fingertips. He watches the slow, repetitive movement with dim optics, watching the readouts of his own systems wind down like he’s an observer outside his own body rather than in it.

Several long minutes pass before there’s a soft click as his armour unlocks from where it had locked down to protect his systems and flares out to allow more cool atmosphere in to help his fans. The full-bodied shakes that made his teeth rattle ease off to a tremble, too, and he feels, rather suddenly, fucking exhausted.

“Sorry,” he croaks after a moment, his vocalizer still struggling to work properly for anything other than screaming. He looks up to meet the knight’s optics again and gets a gentle smile in return. 

“It’s alright,” Wing says softly. His hands still rub slowly down his arms but linger on his fingers for a moment. “What was it, if that’s alright to ask?”

Drift flinches and looks down at their hands, the ghostly afterimages of his charring armour burned to his optics. “Air raid. Some sort of chemical weapon or something. Ate through your armour like acid but it was more like how phosphorous reacts to organics. Stuck to and burned whatever it touched.”

Humming softly, the other mech slowly nods and is quiet for a moment. “Would you like to have a shower maybe? It might help you cool down and wash everything off.”

Hot shame bubbles in his throat: he must look pathetic, curled up in his own sick and shaking. Weak and disgusting and vile. But Wing’s hands are insistent, tugging gently until he’s on his feet and leading him into the washracks. The water hits him, hard and cool and nearly makes him whimper, and he hates himself for it. Wing’s eyes are still locked on his when he meets them again, soft and concerned, and he almost wishes for the hard, angry gaze of a medic instead. 

Plating ruffling, Drift grabs for one of the washcloths and starts scrubbing at his armour. His shaking hands do nothing to calm him down with Wing just standing there, watching, judging, and he swipes angrily at a scuff on his arm. Strong black hands pry the cloth out of his fingers after a moment and the Decepticon squeezes his optics shut to block out the chant of  _weak, weak, weak_  ringing in his audios as the jet rubs the cloth in sure strokes over his armour.

“You must think I’m fucking pathetic,” Drift spits after a long, tense moment, shrinking in on himself and scowling. He refuses to open his optics and keeps his head low, servos balling into fists at his sides. “I  _am_  fucking pathetic.”

The hands stop moving and he tenses up to brace for the hit, but it never comes. Instead, his jaw is caught, held, and pulled up sharply, his optics flickering online in surprise to see Wing giving him a serious look. “Drift,” he says very deliberately, and the grounder swallows thickly and tries to shrink in on himself again, “you are not, under any circumstances, pathetic or weak or any other bad word you have to say about yourself. Trauma does not make you weak. Reacting to trauma doesn’t make you weak, no matter how long it’s been since it happened. You’re allowed to be scared and hurt by things that have happened to you.”

Vents hiccuping, Drift bears his teeth and grabs onto Wing’s wrist but doesn’t pull his hand off himself, instead clutching onto it like a lifeline. The servo releases his chin anyways and shifts to cup his cheek, and he holds it close to his face. 

Wing’s helm cants to the side and his face softens, thumb brushing over grey faceplates. “You’ll never be weak, Drift. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

The jet squeaks softly in surprise when he’s tugged roughly into a hug - an awkward, unsure hug, like Drift hasn’t had the chance to hug someone in earnest for a long, long time - but he’s quick to return it, holding the shaking mech close to his chest while he keens softly.


End file.
